The Misadventures of Kidlock Holmes
by RhiShezza
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a smarter-then-average kid. But being a genius in the body of a twelve-year-old isn't all that it's cracked up to be. With the aid of his mentor, Professor Xander, his family and a tragic loss, Sherlock will become the high-functioning sociopath he is today. Please read and review:D
1. Chapter 1: Bullies and Mind Palaces

Twelve year old Sherlock Holmes took one look at the toilets and decided that he really, really did not want his head placed in one. Unfortunately, he feared that he wouldn't have a choice as the three older boys dragged him into a cubicle.  
"Drown him! Drown him Charlie!" one of the boys (whom Sherlock never really bothered to learn the name of) urged.  
"You know what? I just might!" Charlie, the big brute of a boy sneered. He shoved Sherlock foreword. The two older boys blocked his escape while Charlie forced Sherlock to his knees.  
"You need a lesson on keeping your mouth shut, Freak!"  
"It wasn't my fault you were selling illegal stashes of chocolate from your dorm room!" Sherlock protested. Perhaps he could reason with the older boy…  
"It was your fault for blabbering it to the teachers! Now I might be suspended!" Charlie said angrily. "How'd you even find out about it?"  
"Well, by observing your interactions between the other boys, I could deduce that-"  
Charlie shoved his head in the toilet. Sherlock strained to raise his head but Charlie was strong. With barely an effort on Charlie's part, Sherlock's head was in the water. The other boys laughed and hooted.  
"What's going on here?" a voice inquired calmly. Charlie let go of Sherlock's head and he came out of the toilet coughing.  
"We are teaching this freak a lesson, Mycroft. Go away," Charlie snapped.  
"Yes, well, unfortunately, that freak just so happens to be my brother. Leave him alone or else I will be forced to get the teachers involved. Sherlock's cheeks burned with embarrassment at Mycroft's intervention.  
Charlie narrowed his eyes and took a step towards Mycroft.  
But Mycroft was taller and older then Charlie- he was nearly seventeen. In addition to that factor, Mycroft was one of the smartest, most popular kids at school and the teachers loved him. It wouldn't be very wise to attack Mycroft and Charlie knew it. Instead, he turned to Sherlock.  
"This isn't over, Freak!" And with that, he and his goonies walked off.  
Mycroft observed his brother has water dripped from his soaking face.  
"You didn't have to do that, Mike!" Sherlock said, getting to his feet. "I had it all under my control!"  
"It certainly looked like that from my position," Mycroft replied sarcastically.  
"I'm nearly 13- I can fight my own battle!"  
"Sure you can, little brother," there was still an edge of sarcasm in his voice that made Sherlock mad. He pushed past his older brother.  
"Typical Sherlock- always letting his emotions cloud his judgement," he heard Mycroft say as he stormed out of the bathroom.

It was safe to say Sherlock hated boarding school. Why shouldn't he?  
The teachers were distasteful and the students were rotten. Sherlock had no friends, no one to talk to and there wasn't a day that went by when Sherlock wasn't bullied or harassed. Everyone knew Sherlock was different, and unfortunately, different meant getting your head shoved down toilets on every other day of the week.  
It was all well and good for Mycroft- he was cool, calm, and manipulative and had taken to boarding school like a duck to water. Teachers loved him and bullies never touched him. Worst of all, everyone said he was smarter then Sherlock and everyone payed attention to Mycroft. No one ever paid attention.  
Except of course, his violin teacher, Professor Xander.  
Professor Xander was the most interesting, most smartest teacher at school who seemed to know exactly what Sherlock was thinking and feeling. In fact, it was Professor Xander who suggested to the other teachers that he could give Sherlock two hour private lessons after dinner since Sherlock never stayed in his dorm when he should be sleeping. That was fine with the teachers- they figured Sherlock had special needs but his parents never allowed the teachers to look into it. Those two hour lessons had kept Sherlock out of mischief most of the time.

That night, Professor Xander was teaching Sherlock a variety of Christmas carols on his violin since the holidays weren't that far away.  
"Wonderful, Sherlock!" the Professor clapped after Sherlock had mastered 'We Wish You a Merry Christmas".  
"Can you teach me 'Silent Night' now?" Sherlock asked eagerly. The Professor waved his hand dismissively.  
"We will work on that tomorrow night. Your exams start soon, have you been studying?"  
Sherlock's smile dropped. The Professor raised an eyebrow.  
"You haven't been studying?" he asked.  
"It's not that!" Sherlock said quickly. "I do study but I'm having trouble remembering things."  
"Is that so? I thought memory was one of your strong points?"  
"It was! I mean, it still is! But…" Sherlock took a deep breath.  
"Professor, I see and observe everything. Information, observations, deductions- they all get stored up here-"Sherlock pointed to his head-"Normally, I can find them all easily, but these days, I close my eyes and try to find something and it's all mixed up with everything else. Everything is just so, so…"  
"Cluttered?" The Professor suggested.  
"Yeah! Cluttered! And disorganised!"  
The Professor pondered this for a second.  
"Well, obviously you have to start organising things. Have you ever heard of the memory map technique?"  
"No," Sherlock said, puzzled.  
"Never mind- I will show you how to use it tomorrow. For now, I will leave you with this; your memory is like an attic, Sherl. Granted, your 'attic' will be several times larger than regular people's, but your memory attic will still become full as you continue to collect and store memories. Eventually, you will have to get rid of things." The Professor looked right in Sherlock's eyes.  
"Train your brain, Sherl. You have the potential to be the greatest mind that ever lived. But reward does not come without practise. I think that will be all for tonight."  
Sherlock flushed with pride at the Professor's faith in him. He gathered his things and walked out of Professor Xander's office, his heart lighter than it had been before.

From then on, Professor Xander's lessons became more about stimulating and training Sherlock's mind rather than violin practise and behaviour management. He gave Sherlock riddles and quizzes, encouraging Sherlock to think outside the box and take a different approach to things. He got Sherlock to do difficult math problems and tested him on different scenarios. He even encouraged Sherlock to practise his deductions on everyone. The Professor helped Sherlock with organising his mind and teaching him the mind map technique, where you mentally plot a map with a location and then you deposit memories in there.  
"Theoretically, you can never forget anything. All you have to do was find your way back to it in your head," the Professor told Sherlock.  
Sherlock enjoyed these lessons immensely- there was nothing more pleasing then to be in one's own mind (In fact, Sherlock had started to call it his 'Mind Palace') or solve a puzzle using only the power of his brain. It sent his dopamine crazy.  
It wasn't long before Sherlock's mind became sharper than even Professor Xander's (though not as sharp as Mycroft's). He passed his exams with flying colours. The Christmas break came quickly and after saying farewell to the Professor, Sherlock and Mycroft walked out of the school to meet their parents and most importantly for Sherlock, his beloved dog, Redbeard.


	2. Chapter 2: The Accident

"Boys!" Mrs Holmes greeted the Holmes Brothers outside the school gates.  
"Hello Mother. Hello Father," Mycroft greeted them respectfully.  
"Mum! Dad!" Sherlock shouted excitedly. He eagerly ran up and hugged his parents right there and then. Sherlock hadn't realised how much he missed his parents until now.  
"Sherlock, can't the hugs and kisses and childish things wait until we get home?" Mycroft asked moodily, looking around to see if anyone was watching.  
"Mycroft, don't use that tone on your brother," Mrs Holmes scolded.  
"We're all family here," Mr Holmes added.  
Mycroft smiled a smile that didn't reach his eyes.  
"Yes, I suppose we are," he said. Suddenly, there came a sound from the Holmes's car that Sherlock had missed all year- the sound of a barking dog. Sherlock's eyes widened and a smile spread across his face.  
"Redbeard!" he laughed. Rushing over to the car, he opened the door and out jumped a beautiful red Irish Setter. He leaped on Sherlock, sending the twelve year old onto his butt as the Irish Setter showered Sherlock in dog-kisses.  
"It's Ok, Redbeard! I missed you too, buddy! I missed you too!" Sherlock giggled, patting the dog. Mr and Mrs Holmes smiled at their son and his dog while Mycroft stood with his arms crossed, looking bored.  
"Can we go home now?" he asked.

For Sherlock, the holidays were filled with happy days of playing pirates with his beloved dog, Redbeard. Although his Irish Setter was getting old and his pirate outfit was getting small for him, Sherlock didn't mind. He had to entertain himself, somehow- his mother was always in her office writing up some mathematics book and his father was often working. Mycroft locked himself in his room to study (he wanted to be a politician and had already received several scholarships from some big-name universities) and none of the other kids in the neighbourhood would associate with Sherlock. It was safe to say Redbeard was the only friend Sherlock had ever had (apart from Professor Xander, but even then, the Professor would never play pirates with him). Mycroft always thought Sherlock's obsession with pirates was childish and stupid and frequently told him to stop playing the game. But then Sherlock would turn around and tell him to shut up and that would be the end of that conversation.  
Every day, Sherlock would practise using his brain, whether that be by doing deductions or asking his Mother for some math problems. Before he went to sleep, he would often enter his Mind Palace to organise and explore, which felt good.  
Christmas came and passed. Mycroft got an umbrella (he told his parents that he wanted something 'practical' for Christmas) and Sherlock received his very own violin, much to his delight. Even Redbeard received a couple of dog biscuits.  
After that, everything went on as normal.  
Until the day of the accident.  
Until everything changed.

"Mom! Can I take Redbeard for a walk?!" Sherlock shouted at the door to his mom's office.  
"Sure! But take Mycroft with you!" Mrs Holmes replied.  
"Wait? What? No!" Mycroft yelled.  
"Mycroft, get out of that bedroom and go with your brother," Mrs Holmes ordered.  
"But Mother-"  
"Now, Mycroft!"  
There came an exaggerated sigh from Mycroft's bedroom. His door opened.  
"This had better be quick, Sherlock," Mycroft told his brother. Sherlock shrugged and went to fetch Redbeard's lead.  
Redbeard loved walks and as soon as they were outside, he pulled on the lead, nearly whipping it out of Sherlock's hand.  
"Wrap the lead around your hand so you don't lose it," Mycroft snapped. Sherlock ignored him and walked ahead of his brother. Mycroft was forced to walk faster.  
"Why are you always mean to me?" Sherlock asked.  
"I'm not mean," Mycroft protested, taken aback.  
"You are! You call me names like 'stupid' and 'childish'. Why do you have to be such a downer all the time?"  
"Sherlock, compared to me, you are stupid, and you do act like a child. And I'm not a downer- I just look at things from a logical perspective," Mycroft replied.  
"You're not a very proper big brother," Sherlock commented.  
"And you're not very good at controlling your emotions- you let them rule your head. Caring is not an advantage- it only leads to heartache and annoyance," Mycroft said coldly. Sherlock turned away to hide his angry expression.  
Suddenly, Redbeard jerked foreword and the lead was pulled from Sherlock's hand.  
"Hey!" Sherlock shouted as Redbeard started running. "Hey! Wait up!"  
Sherlock took off after Redbeard. Cursing his brother, Mycroft started to follow.  
"Redbeard? Where are you going?!" Sherlock shouted.  
"Sherlock, wait up!" Mycroft called, already panting. But Sherlock would not stop- the last time Redbeard had run off, it took them a whole week to find him again.  
Redbeard darted across the road. Sherlock followed and ignored Mycroft's warning. He managed to catch Redbeard's collar.  
"Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled.  
At the back of Sherlock's head, something told him that Mycroft's warning seemed a bit more urgent than just a simple cry of annoyance.  
Suddenly, there was a screech of tyres, a flash of agonisingly blinding pain, a high yelp from Redbeard and Sherlock knew no more as his world plunged into darkness.


	3. Chapter 3: Where is Redbeard?

It was the steady beeping of machines, not the sound of his mother's voice that guided Sherlock back into consciousness. He opened his eyes and immediately closed them again. He felt terrible! His head hurt, his leg throbbed and it hurt to breathe. He tried opening his eyes again and found familiar faces staring back at him.  
"Mother?" Sherlock asked dumbly.  
"Baby, I'm here," his mother said in a soothing voice. Sherlock struggled to form words.  
"W-where am I-I?" he tried to look around to see where he was, but that made his head hurt more.  
"You're at the hospital. You got hit by a car, sweetie. Try not to strain yourself too much."  
"You gave use quite a scare there, son. What were you thinking, running on the road like that?" Mr Holmes said. Memories of the accident flashed through Sherlock's head. He grimaced.  
"Where's R-Redbeard?" he asked. Mr and Mrs Holmes exchanged a look.  
"He's at the vet's," Mrs Holmes said slowly. His mother's hesitation confused Sherlock but he was in too much pain to care.  
"My head hurts," he complained.  
"I should think so! You have a concussion, broken leg, cracked ribs-"  
"Mycroft Holmes! Do not trouble your brother!" Mr Holmes snapped at Mycroft.  
"I will see if the doctors will give you more morphine," Mrs Holmes said, kissing Sherlock's forehead. She and Mr Holmes went to find a doctor leaving Mycroft to watch over Sherlock.  
"I told you to wrap Redbeard's lead around your hand. Now look what's happened," Mycroft whispered.  
"Are you angry with me, Mike?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft looked down at his little brother lying in the hospital bed.  
"No, Sherlock- I was supposed to be watching you. Brother mine, are you OK?" he said gently.  
"Yeah, I'll be OK. You were right- I let my emotions cloud my judgement. I didn't want to wrap the lead around my wrist because I got angry with you. I'm sorry, Mike." And then Sherlock started to cry. Mycroft stood there, uncomfortable, not knowing what to do.

After spending an annoying amount of time in Hospital, Sherlock was eager to be going home. Most of all, he was looking forward to seeing Redbeard again. Sherlock was sure that the Irish Setter had been hurt in the accident, too, but his parents and Mycroft seemed to dodge his questions about Redbeard's health. Perhaps he was deformed from the accident?  
It didn't really matter- Sherlock would love his dog no matter what.  
So there he was, sitting in the backseat of his car, his leg in a cast and his hopes high. But when the Holmes's car pulled into the driveway, Sherlock couldn't hear Redbeard barking like he normally would. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Mycroft who was sitting in the car seat next to him. Mycroft scowled and looked away. What was up with everyone?  
Sherlock got out of the car, walking unsteadily on his crutches.  
"Redbeard!" he called. He whistled but Redbeard did not come like he normally would.  
"Mum, Dad, where is Redbeard?" Sherlock asked worriedly. Mr and Mrs Holmes exchanged a look.  
"What's going on? What are you not telling me?"  
"Sherlock, there's something you need to know. Redbeard is not here," Mr Holmes said quietly.  
"What do you mean he's not here?"  
"Sherl, Redbeard is-"  
"He had to move," Mrs Holmes cut in quickly. Sherlock could have sworn she was glaring at his father.  
"Move? Where? Why?"  
"Redbeard was severely injured in the accident, Sherl. He needs to go to a special place to live, now. He's gone to a happy valley to live where he will get special treatment. It's far away so you'll most likely never see him again," Mrs Holmes said sadly. Sherlock's vision got blurry with tears.  
"No," Sherlock whispered. His mother took a step towards.  
"Sherlock-"  
"NO!" he screamed and walked as fast as he could into the Holmes house, slamming the front door behind him.  
"Sherlock!" his mother called but he reached his bedroom and locked his door. Sherlock buried himself in his bed and shoved a pillow over his head. His mind was racing.  
Redbeard gone forever? No! That was impossible. Redbeard was Sherlock's one and only friend. Why did Redbeard have to go off to a happy valley? And why where his parents acting so weird? And why couldn't Sherlock see Redbeard?  
This wasn't fair!  
Somewhere in the back of his head, a voice of reason had been putting his parents's weird behaviour together and the way their story seemed to be off. All off it pointed to his parents lying and Redbeard being…  
No, that couldn't be it. Because if it was, Sherlock couldn't live with himself. _He_ was the one that ignored Mycroft's warning, _he_ was the one that let Redbeard's lead out of his hand and _he_ was the one responsible if Redbeard was… was…  
Sherlock couldn't bring himself to think it.  
Sherlock decided he would believe his parent's story about Redbeard going off to live in a happy valley- the alternative was too terrible.

* * *

 **Sorry about the short chapter!:D  
Don't forget to review:D  
Next Chapter: The Curious Case of Carl Powers**


	4. Chapter4:The Curious Case of Carl Powers

There came a time when Sherlock had to go back to that dreadful boarding school with it's dreadful students and it's dreadful teachers. His leg, although out of the cast, hurt when he walked. His mind was still emotionally raw from the accident. And Redbeard? Who knows where he was! Sherlock missed him terribly.  
And worst of all? Sherlock knew he was going to be targeted by bullies this year. Mycroft had graduated so now it was safe to pick on Sherlock.  
He would be seeing Professor Xander again, for sure. But that was only one lonely positive stacked against a mountain of negatives.  
Sherlock wished he could go to a public school instead of being stuck at an all-boys boarding school. But Mr and Mrs Holmes believed a good education came from a good boarding school- Sherlock had no choice in the matter.  
He was allowed, however to come home on weekends instead of spending a full term at school.  
Perhaps it wouldn't be that bad?  
Sherlock told himself that over and over again. Eventually, he started to believe it, if only a little bit.  
Unfortunately, Sherlock forgot to consider one thing. One thing that made Sherlock's life a living hell.  
Carl Powers, the school bully.

Sherlock ran into Carl Powers first day back at lunchtime. All the other students were out playing or talking to their friends. Sherlock, on the other hand, was sitting by himself, thinking of Redbeard. He unconsciously sketched the Irish Setter in the dirt with a stick. When he realised what he was doing, Sherlock sighed and scribbled it out with the stick. Redbeard was gone forever, when was he going to accept that?  
Some shouting over the other side of the school yard brought Sherlock out of his thoughts. He looked up and his heart did a double take when he saw Carl Powers. Carl and his group of friends had surrounded some poor kid and where taking it in turns to shove him- like he was a ball or something. And of course- the teachers didn't notice. It made Sherlock's blood boil.  
Carl was the same age as Sherlock but he was built like a fifteen year old. He used his size to bully everyone in his grade and even the older kids. Carl always picked on everyone who was remotely different. Sherlock had a special hatred for people preyed on other people who were different. Looking closely at the boy Carl and his friends were pushing around, Sherlock realised he was indeed different. It didn't take a deducing genius to know that he was gay.  
A year ago, Sherlock would have done anything to avoid Carl, but now…  
Getting up hastily, Sherlock marched over to the group.  
"Leave him alone, you immature delinquents!" Sherlock yelled. The group stopped what they were doing and turned to him.  
"What do you want, freak?" Carl snapped.  
"Leave him alone or else I'll tell the teachers!" Sherlock snapped back. Carl's friend's sniggered. Sherlock noticed that he seemed to be scratching a lot.  
 _Carl has eczema_ , he realised. He mentally stored this information away for further use later. He looked Carl up and down to see if he could deduce anything more about him. He loved his shoes, which were clean and had new laces put in them.  
"You wouldn't dare tell the teachers," Carl said confidently.  
 _Oh? Really? Well, like everyone else here, Carl, your rich parents sent you here with high hopes. Most likely they drilled 'do not fail or get expelled or else you will be in big trouble' into you. Don't want to disappoint them, do you Carl_?  
"Maybe I will go and tell the teachers. All it would take is one word from me and they will have your parents down here in a heartbeat. Want to risk that, Carl?" Sherlock asked, matching Carl's confidence.  
"Dob me in, freak, and I promise you that you will need surgery just to fix your face up," Carl said, confidence starting to fade.  
"I hardly think you'll be inflicting any injury upon me if you get expelled. Most likely it'll be your parent's inflicting the injuries on you, presumably with that belt they always seem to use." Sherlock gave him a nasty smile. Carl gaped at him.  
"How did you-"  
"You are trying but failing to hide that distinctively shaped bruise on your left hand. You're a troublemaker, Carl. The belt is the only way your parent's can control you. And yet, you don't want your friends here to know that. Why's that? Perhaps you find it embarrassing and undignifying because you know that as soon as your parents get out the belt you will do anything that they say. Not as tough as you want to be, are you Carl?" Sherlock said smugly. Carl's face had gone red with anger.  
"Why you little…" he might have decked Sherlock there and then if one of the teacher's hadn't of finally noticed what was going on.  
"Oi! Mr Powers! I hope you haven't been bullying again?"  
Carl gave Sherlock a look of hatred.  
"We'll finish this another time," he growled, stalking off.  
"I'll be waiting," Sherlock replied. As Carl's bewildered friend's dispersed, Sherlock approached the kid that had been bullied. He was the same height as Sherlock but he looked older, like he was fourteen or something. He had dark hair and eyes that seemed to be assessing everything.  
"Hello. What's your name?" Sherlock asked, aware that the kid seemed to be analysing his face.  
"Jim," he said quietly after a moment of silence. Sherlock met his eyes and knew immediately that Jim was smarter than he appeared to be. There was a sharp look about his eyes, like he was planning your death.  
Sherlock began to wonder whether saving this kid from Carl was a good idea.  
"Thank you for standing up to Carl. He laughs at me a lot." A dark look crossed Jim's face.  
"One day I'm going to stop him from laughing at me."  
"Well, see you around… Jim," Sherlock said awkwardly.  
"Yeah, see you around soon, _Sherlock_ ," Jim said, rolling Sherlock's name around in his mouth like he was seeing how it felt. Sherlock shivered and quickly walked away.

If there was one thing that Sherlock was good at apart from using his brain, it would be sport. Unlike Mycroft, Sherlock was fit and a fast runner. Professor Xander often encouraged Sherlock to compete in sports. Sherlock often refused- sport wasn't his thing.  
Until the day of the Swimming Carnival. Sherlock decided, out of impulse, to compete in the breast stroke race. He would be up against the best swimmers in his grade, including Carl Powers, but Sherlock decided he stood a fair chance.  
Besides, the opportunity to beat Carl Powers was too good to pass up.  
Sherlock stood near the pool in his swimmers, watching everyone else get ready. He felt like he was being watched. He looked up to the seats where his parents and Mycroft were sitting. But they weren't the pair of eyes that Sherlock was feeling. Looking around, Sherlock met the eyes of the kid named Jim. He was watching Sherlock closely. But he didn't have time to ponder this because the race was about to start.  
Six boys, including Sherlock stood at the edge of the pool waiting for the starter's gun.  
"You're going down, freak," Carl Powers hissed from beside Sherlock. Sherlock ignored him and got ready to jump. It seemed to take forever until-  
 _bang!  
_ The starter's gun fired and Sherlock leaped into the pool. He started swimming faster than he ever had before. He was going to win! He was going to beat Carl Powers!  
In no time at all, Sherlock had reached the other side of the pool. He dived down and kicked off to complete his lap. For once, Sherlock felt like he was finally on top of something.  
That was when the first screams started.  
Surprised, Sherlock swallowed a mouthful of water and stopped swimming. Coughing, he started treading water, looking around to see what everyone was yelling and screaming about.  
There- a few metres behind Sherlock in the pool. Something was floating. Sherlock blinked in surprise when he realised it was one of the students floating face down in the water.  
It was Carl Powers and he was clearly dead.

Even there, treading water and watching Carl's lifeless body float, Sherlock's mind was racing. Carl was a strong swimmer so there was no way he would have just drowned like that. So how? How was he dead a couple of metres away from Sherlock?  
Perhaps the boy had suffered a medical episode? Like a fit or a seizure? No, no, no, Sherlock was sure he would have seen the symptoms of epilepsy in Carl. Allergic reaction? Highly improbable- Carl had swam in this pool before.  
This was frustrating! Sherlock needed more evidence!  
He got out of the pool and ran to the boy's locker room. He broke into Carl's locker. Sherlock examined the contents to see if there was anything out of the ordinary.  
Carl's clothes… notebooks… eczema skin cream…  
"Nothing!" Sherlock growled. Except… there was something. Something that should be there but wasn't.  
Where was Carl's beloved shoes?

When the police and ambulance arrived, Sherlock was waiting.  
"This is pretty open and shut. Boy had some kind of fit in the pool and drowned," One of the police officers said, writing in a notebook. Sherlock watched as the ambulance wheeled Carl's body away.  
"Hey kid, step back!" The police officer told him.  
"I don't think he had a fit in the pool. I think he was murdered," Sherlock told him. The Police Officer laughed.  
"You think so, son? Why don't you leave the investigating up to the experts?"  
"Because half of you police officers and detectives are nimrods. Carl was a perfectly healthy boy and a strong swimmer. So why- and how- can he be dead? Also, where are his shoes? He loved his shoes so he wouldn't have lost them. They should be right there in his locker. Conclusion? Somebody stole his shoes," Sherlock told him.  
"Why would someone steal a dead kid's shoes from his locker?" the police officer asked.  
"Good- now you're thinking like a detective," Sherlock murmured. The Police Officer glared at Sherlock.  
"Bit of a smart-alec aren't you, son? I will be talking to your headmaster. What's your name?"  
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes. But you can call me Sherlock," Sherlock answered smartly.  
"Rightio, follow me, _William_ ," the police officer said, clearly annoyed. Sherlock followed the police officer, deep in thought.  
Was he sad that Carl was dead? No- Carl had been a bully and a brute who meant nothing to Sherlock. The mystery that surrounded Carl's death, however, fascinated him. It was a puzzle that was screaming to be solved.  
Sherlock had never really given much thought about what he wanted to be when he grew up- he always wanted to be a pirate. But now, Sherlock realised a _lived_ for solving puzzles and stimulating his brain. Sherlock grew bored very easily- but he wasn't bored when he solved puzzles. Far from it, in fact.  
Now, Sherlock Holmes knew exactly what he wanted to be when he got older.  
 _A Detective._

* * *

 **Hey guys:D! Bit of a longer Chapter here (Yaaay). Thank you so much for the reviews:D Please keep them up- they're a huge encouragement:)!  
**


	5. Chapter 5: The Truth

Needless to say, the headmaster wasn't very impressed with Sherlock and after a long lecture on why Sherlock should have kept his mouth shut, he was sent to Professor Xander without any dinner. The Professor, too, had a few words for Sherlock.  
"Really Sherlock, was it necessary to mouth off at the police officer like that?" the Professor asked. Sherlock shrugged, staring hard at the ground.  
"I couldn't help myself, sir," he muttered.  
"Was someone else controlling your actions, Sherl?"  
"No."  
"Are you a puppet?"  
"No."  
"Do you have a condition that stops you from controlling the words that come out of your mouth?"  
"No."  
"Then you have full control of your actions, Sherl. Think before you act." The Professor shook his head.  
"You're giving me white hairs, boy!"  
"Sorry," Sherlock said, still looking at the ground. The Professor sighed.  
"Your nearly thirteen, Sherlock. It's time you stoped acting like a child."  
Sherlock looked up angrily.  
"I wish people would stop trying to change me all the time," he said tightly.  
"Is that what you think I'm doing?" The Professor asked.  
"Well… no," Sherlock answered.  
"See what I mean? Think about what comes out of your mouth before you say it."  
"I'm sorry sir," Sherlock said.  
"I forgive you Sherlock. Now! Moving on from this nonsense, did you bring your violin?"

Sherlock spent the next hour practising his violin. But he found that when he retired to his dorm room, he wasn't tired. There was too much to think about. Something was troubling Sherlock, but he couldn't quite place his finger on it.  
Ever since he saw Carl Powers die, a sense of confusion had dropped upon Sherlock. Everyone else was grieving and crying over Carl's death. Everyone except, Sherlock.  
Why was that? Why did Sherlock have to be so different? Everyone thought him so heartless when he told them he didn't care that Carl was dead. But Carl had never meant anything to him.  
Sherlock had always kept his emotions in check, though he had never learnt to repress them like Mycroft did.  
There was one word that the teachers had started to call him when his back was turned. One word that they thought summed up Sherlock perfectly.  
 _Sociopath_.  
"But I'm not a sociopath!" Sherlock said out loud.  
"Shut up, Holmes," one of the other children in the dormitory hissed.  
This wasn't fair! Sure, he felt things differently than the other students, but that did not make him a sociopath. Sociopaths don't feel emotions.  
He had cried when Redbeard was taken from him- that was proof enough that he wasn't a sociopath.  
 _"So you would cry for a dog and not for a boy?"_ one of the teachers had said. Sherlock sat up abruptly in bed. He brushed the tears away that had started to fall as soon as he thought about Redbeard..  
This couldn't go on! This school was a pit of whispers and things that were half-said. There was nothing good here and it was making Sherlock doubt himself.  
There was only one person to talk to now. Sherlock slipped on some shoes and snuck out of the dorm room.  
He made his way back to Professor Xander's office and knocked on his door.  
"Sherlock?" the Professor said in surprise. "What are you doing out of bed?"  
"I can't sleep, sir," Sherlock said.  
"You know the rules, Sherlock. You should have stayed in bed. Aw well, I suppose you'd be up playing pranks on all the other teachers if I don't let you in, won't you?" the Professor laughed, holding his door open for Sherlock. Sherlock took a seat as did the Professor.  
"What's the matter, boy?"  
"Do you think I'm a sociopath?" Sherlock asked. The Professor considered this.  
"No, I don't. Far from it, in fact. Is this because you aren't crying over Carl Powers?"  
"Yes. Everyone else thinks I'm… a machine. That I don't feel things. But I do. Even Mycroft feels things sometimes and he represses his emotions. I just don't see the logical point of grieving over Carl," Sherlock said.  
"Listen, Sherlock, it doesn't matter what people think. They're idiots. You're more human than half of those students. No else went to help Jim when he was getting bullied by Carl. No one except you."  
"Yes, I suppose there's that," Sherlock sighed, unconvinced. The Professor shook his head.  
"You're nearly thirteen-"  
"What's that have to do with anything?"  
"You're leaving your childhood behind, Sherl, and transitioning into a man-"  
Sherlock let out a groan. So _this_ was why everyone had suddenly started to pay close attention to his age.  
Sherlock was no stranger to puberty and what ought to be going on during that over-dramatized time, but if he had to hear another lecture about it one more time…  
The Professor caught Sherlock's look and laughed.  
"Do not take it lightly. Puberty is often a confusing time physically and emotionally for everyone. Physically, you got a lot going on there. But that's nothing compared to what's going on emotionally. Nothing will make sense. It'll seem that everyone hates you and perhaps you will feel like you hate everyone else. Nothing is certain or stable. It will feel like everyone is judging you. You'll begin to doubt yourself. You're doing it now," the Professor said.  
"Doing what now?" Sherlock asked.  
"Having doubts. You're wondering about what your place in this universe is- whether you're a human or a machine."  
Once again, the Professor seemed to know Sherlock's thoughts.  
"My best advice is, don't let other people's immature judgements into your head. You are who you are, Sherlock, and nothing no one says or do should ever change that."  
"Would you say that to a mass murderer?" Sherlock asked hotly. The Professor shrugged.  
"We can only hide from our true identities for so long."  
"I guess so, sir."  
"Have you ever thought about girls?" The Professor asked. Sherlock gave him a withering look.  
"…Or boys? Which is fine, by the way…"  
"I know it's fine. Why are you bringing it up? I go to an all-boys school. Why would I be interested in girls?" Sherlock said moodily. It took him a few moments to realise what he had said.  
"I don't like boys either!"  
"So you're not interested in finding a boyfriend or girlfriend?"  
"Nope. And if you don't change the subject I'm going to throw myself out the window," Sherlock snapped. This made the Professor laugh.  
"OK Sherlock, you win. Let's see what we can do about your behaviour. Do you know what a compromise is?"  
"Bending the law?" he asked.  
"No, it's when two opposing parties come to an agreement. I'm proposing a compromise- I will speak to the headmaster and your parents and hopefully convince them to let you go home on weekends since you hate it here so much."  
Sherlock blinked in surprise.  
"That would be aweso-"  
"In return, you will control your behaviour. Deal?"  
Sherlock hesitated before saying "Deal."  
He turned to leave.  
"Sherlock?" The Professor called.  
"Yes sir?"  
"You remind me of him."  
"Of who, sir?" Sherlock asked, puzzled.  
"My son. You remind me of him." The Professor's face suddenly dropped and Sherlock saw sadness pass over his features.  
"He's dead. Cancer took him. You remind me of him. I won't lie when I say I love you like my lost son. Goodbye, Sherlock," the Professor said mournfully.  
"Goodbye, Professor Xander," Sherlock said uncertainly.

That weekend, Sherlock packed his things and went to meet his parents outside the school gates.  
"Just so you know, I'm not entirely sure I like this arrangement but if it keeps you out of trouble, I'll go along with it," Mrs Holmes said dryly in the front seat.  
"Be a bit weird having you every weekend. Try not to annoy Mycroft too much, Sherl, he's got important stuff he has to do," Mr Holmes said from the driver's seat. Sherlock shrugged and cradled his head in his arms.  
"I miss Redbeard," he sniffed. Mr and Mrs Holmes exchanged a look. There it was again! The weird looks… the odd question dodging… they knew something about Redbeard and Sherlock was going to get to the bottom of it. In fact, he was going to get to the bottom of it today.

Sherlock knocked on Mycroft's bedroom door.  
"Mycroft!" he called and waited a few seconds.  
"Go away Sherlock!"  
"Mycroft, open up! I have to ask you something!"  
"Go away or I'll get Mother!"  
"You're not supposed to disturb mother when she's in her office and dad's at work. Let me in, Mycroft!"  
"Go away!"  
Sherlock took a deep breath.  
"Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft-"  
"Stop that!"  
"Open up and I'll stop. Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft…" Sherlock repeated his older brother's name for a full five minutes before Mycroft opened his bedroom door, his face red with anger.  
"Sherlock, prepare yourself for the biggest wedgy of your life-"  
"Mycroft, where's Redbeard?"  
Mycroft faltered.  
"Look, I know you think I'm just a dumb little kid, but I'm not. Mom, dad and you know what's going on and yet you think it's acceptable to keep me in the dark. Mycroft, I'm begging you, please! Tell me where my best friend is," Sherlock begged. Mycroft seemed to be assessing the situation.  
"I suppose you're going to find out eventually. Are you sure you want to know?"  
That chilled Sherlock to the bone but he managed a small nod.  
"Right. Come in."  
Sherlock went into Mycroft's room and sat on his bed. Mycroft sat down on his desk chair. There were papers, books and pens everywhere but they were arranged very neatly.  
 _OCD much_ , Sherlock thought dryly before fixing his attention on Mycroft.  
"So, you got something to tell me?" Sherlock asked, mimicking what his father usually said when Sherlock was in trouble.  
"Sherlock, there's no easy way to say this so I'm just going to give it to you straight. Redbeard was hurt very badly in the accident. We had no choice. He was in too much pain and there was nothing the vet could do. He had to be euthanized," Mycroft said slowly.  
"Euthanized… like put to sleep?"  
Mycroft nodded, looking like he already regretted what he just said.  
"He's dead?" Sherlock asked, his eyes turning watery.  
Mycroft nodded.  
Suddenly, there didn't seem to be any air. Sherlock began sucking in breath after breath.  
"No, he can't be dead, don't say he's dead. Please don't say he's dead…" Sherlock moaned.  
"Sherlock, I'm so sorry but it's true. Redbeard is-"  
"No! Don't say he's dead. He's not dead! Redbeard's my best and only friend! He cannot be dead!" Sherlock shouted, tears streaming down his face.  
"Sherlock, you're hyperventilating, calm down, Brother Mine," Mycroft said helplessly.  
"Shut up! Shut up and listen to me! Redbeard is my friend! My friend, Mycroft! HE IS NOT DEAD!"  
Mycroft made a move to hug his little brother.  
"No! Don't touch me!"  
Sherlock jumped off the bed and ran out of his brother's room. His mom came out of her office.  
"Sherlock, what's the matter-" but Sherlock pushed passed her. Suddenly, he was out of the house and running… running as fast as he could.  
Away from the people that had lied to him.  
Away from the horrible truth.  
Redbeard was dead. And so too was Sherlock's heart.


	6. Chapter 6: Happy Birthday, Brother Mine

Sherlock ran as fast as he could for as far as he could. The burning of his protesting lungs and legs hardly registered as the same three words echoed through Sherlock's head.  
 _Redbeard is dead… Redbeard is dead… Redbeard is dead…_  
Eventually, Sherlock stopped running and collapsed to the ground, panting heavily. Tears streamed down his face. Sherlock angrily brushed them away. He would not cry! He wouldn't…  
It was no good- the tears kept on coming.  
Why had his family lied to him? Why?! Redbeard is his friend!  
Sherlock gulped.  
 _Was_ his friend.  
Now he was dead. It was all Sherlock's fault.

Needless to say, Mycroft Holmes had copped a mouthful from his parents when they found out that he had told Sherlock the truth about Redbeard.  
" _Redbeard was Sherlock's only friend! You knew the truth would crush him so why did you go ahead and stir the pot?"_ Mother had yelled at him.  
 _"He was going to find out anyway. If we kept the truth from him any longer the repercussions would have been much worse,"_ Mycroft had argued calmly.  
 _"Repercussions?! Your brother is missing! Gone! Run off! All because you couldn't keep your mouth shut!"_  
And now three days later, here Mycroft was, putting up posters that read ' _HAVE YOU SEEN THIS BOY?'_ all around London. The police had been informed and everyone was out searching. Though Mycroft would never admit it, a big part of him worried about his little brother. Sherlock knew London almost as well as Mycroft did but he had never been gone this long before.  
Who knew what sort of mischief he would be getting up to?  
Mycroft realized that the most practical event in this scenario would be Sherlock being found before something bad happened.  
Clearly, no one else was cleverer enough to find him aside from Mycroft. Mycroft tried to get into Sherlock's mindset, trying to think like his little brother. Though Mycroft often repressed his emotions, that didn't mean he didn't understand them.  
 _Sherlock would have been very upset. He would have felt alone. He would have needed someone to talk to. But who?_ Mycroft thought. It occurred to him that the only person Sherlock would have gone to see would have been that dusty old Professor Xander. Sighing, Mycroft got into a cab and politely instructed the cabbie to take him to the boarding school.  
When he got there, Mycroft wasted no time in going to the office.  
"Mycroft? What are you doing back here?" a perky office lady whom Mycroft didn't bother remembering her name said in surprise.  
"I assure you I wouldn't be back unless the situation was dire. Have you seen my brother, William Holmes?"  
It took a few moments for the name to sink in.  
"Oh! You mean Sherlock! Sorry, William let us know from day one _never_ to call him that- always to call him 'Holmes' or 'Sherlock'. Why, the first time a teacher called him 'William', he gave her a mouthful-"  
"Yes, but have you seen Sherlock?" Mycroft cut in impatiently.  
"No, not since last Friday. I heard about what happened. I hope he comes home soon," the office lady said.  
"Yes well, I suppose we all do. May I see Professor Xander?"  
"Oh, I'm sorry. The Professor passed away on Saturday- he had been battling cancer for some time now."  
Mycroft paled. Oh no. Not the Professor too. No wonder poor Sherlock hadn't come home.  
"Thank you. You've been very… helpful."  
Mycroft walked slowly. First Redbeard… and now the Professor. This was bad. Very bad. Mycroft doubted his little brother could handle this.  
Mycroft felt guilt and worry flood his systems, the emotions threatening to overwhelm his mind.  
It was all Mycroft's fault. Why the _hell_ did he tell Sherlock about Redbeard? Mycroft imagined his little brother mad with grief. He had to find him!  
But how? London was a big city, where would have Sherlock gone?  
Mycroft tried to imagine what Sherlock had felt when he had come to the school and realized that the Professor was dead.  
 _He would have felt numb. Grief would have over-powered everything else. He wouldn't know where to go or what to do. So, he would have just kept walking until something happened.  
_ Mycroft walked out of the school and tried to imagine his little brother walking aimlessly. Where do aimless people go?  
Mycroft kept walking, much like his little brother would have done.

An hour later, and Mycroft was getting frustrated. He'd been walking as Sherlock would have done for an hour and still no results! Perhaps he wasn't on to something… But he was Mycroft! He was as smart as they come!  
So where was his little brother?  
Well, clearly he wasn't here, so Mycroft decided he wasn't on to something. Sighing, he turned to leave when something caught his eye.  
It was of London's many rundown flats. But there was something different about this one. It was almost like it was a…  
Mycroft faltered.  
No, surely his little brother wasn't _that_ stupid.  
Mycroft felt his heart creep up to his mouth as he started to walk towards the flat. He went right up to the door and hesitated.  
Clutching his umbrella tightly in his hand in case he needed a weapon, Mycroft pushed open the door and stepped inside.  
Inside the flat was dark, damp and it reeked. Mycroft took one shaky step after the other up the stairs, afraid of what he might find.  
He reached the top of the stairs and winced. Someone had knocked most of the walls down and several people were lying on blankets or walking around dopily.  
 _My deductions were correct. This is indeed a crack house.  
_ Mycroft scanned the room, searching for the face he prayed he wouldn't find.  
There, in the corner of the living room. Mycroft nearly threw up but he made his way slowly to the corner, gripping his umbrella so tight that his knuckles turned white.  
"Sh-Sherlock?" Mycroft whispered to the figure lying on blankets in the corner. The figure stirred and rolled over. Mycroft's heart stopped beating.  
Lying pathetically on the ground was his little brother, Sherlock Holmes.  
" What the hell do you think you are playing at?" Mycroft asked, suddenly furious.  
"M…Mike?" Sherlock stammered.  
"For God's sake, Sherlock, why?"  
"I…I…wanted… to… forget… Redbeard… dead… Professor… dead… family…lied…" Sherlock yearned and appeared to almost pass out. Mycroft felt a deep sense of shame- he had driven his brother into this.  
"Morphine or Cocaine?" Mycroft asked, feeling drained.  
"Hmmm?"  
"Morphine or Cocaine? Which drug did you take, Sherlock?"  
"H…heroin."  
Mycroft nearly had a meltdown right there and then.  
"Heroin?! Of all the drugs Sherlock! That's the one most addictive and now you have a risk of contracting a disease because I bet you used a needle!"  
"S'kay… checked…for…c-clean…7%...s-ol-ution-"  
"Sherlock!" Mycroft said sharply. Sherlock appeared to zone out.  
 _What will mother and father think?_ Mycroft thought despairingly. This was going to change everything.  
Mycroft sat down next to Sherlock.  
 _What am I going to do?_  
"Oh Sherlock," Mycroft whispered. "I am sorry- this is all my fault."  
A nagging thought popped up in Mycroft's head- something so simple and childish that he almost laughed.  
"Happy Birthday, Brother Mine- you are no longer a child… thirteen today." Mycroft felt like he was about to cry.  
"What a great start to teen hood." He laughed dryly and despairingly. "What a great start indeed."

 **The End…**

* * *

A word from the writer… Hey guys, ShadowVanHelsing here.  
I know a lot of you aren't going to be happy with the ending of my story but it just felt right to me. This story wasn't intending to be light-hearted even though it may have started off like that. This chapter isn't the best… but I don't care. This is what is happening… Sherlock had to start taking drugs at some stage.

So, yeah, let me know in the comments about what you think.

Also, I am going to be doing another Van Helsing fanfiction called Transylvanian Sherriff (OK, the name needs an improvement…).


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